


comfort food

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Homelessness, cafe times, it's cute or whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: “You come here often? — That sounded like the worst pick-up line ever, jeez—“





	comfort food

He orders black coffee, you notice. For the summer heat outside the cafe’s windows, it’s a strange choice. The ice in your drink shifts and you watch a drop of condensation drip onto the table, dangerously close to your book. Black coffee? You furrow your brows at the man’s back as he picks up his cup and goes to sit in the corner opposite from yours, curled up in one of the poofy armchairs.

Despite his scruffy, sleepy appearance, he’s rather handsome. Brown, fluffy hair in one of those fashionable mullet styles, though from the rest of his outfit you gather he’s not making a statement.

You’ve seen him here a few times over the past couple months; always in the same spot, always with the same clothes, always with the same far-off look in his eye. Like something’s weighing heavy on his shoulders as the steam from his cup rises into his face. He’s got that expression now, you notice, but he’s holding a crumpled up paper in his hand. It’s postcard-sized, but you’re not entirely sure.

You realize you’re staring and quickly look back down to your book, but you can’t focus on the page for long. He’s on your mind instead of the novel. Peering over the top of your book, you catch his eye for a fleeting second before both of you look away, like embarrassed teenagers.

At least you know he’s not a teenager. Far too tall and jaw too defined.

— Stop it, you have to focus. Book. Focusing. Creak of a chair. Focusing on the book. Someone clearing their throat in front of you. …No longer focusing.

“Hey, uh. Is anyone sittin’ here?”

You find him standing a few feet from the opposite chair at your table, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Someone wanted the armchair and I couldn’t say no, y’know?”

A little boy sits where the man once was, nose buried in a book about dinosaurs as he slurps on a carton of apple juice. You smile, offering him the chair with a nod.

He sits and you shut your book, tucking it back into your bag. The man catches the title printed on the spine and quirks a brow.

“I’ve heard about that one, I think. Books ’n stuff. Any good?”

You nod, explaining a bit of the plot to him as he drinks his coffee. He looks puzzled, but doesn’t ask any questions. Mustn’t be much of a sci-fi fan, you suppose.

“I’ll have’ta read it sometime. See what it’s all about.” The man grins lopsidedly before realizing something, wide-eyed.

“Oh, shoot. I never said— I’m Samuel, by the way. What’s— What’s your name?”

You tell him, reaching out a hand for him to shake. Samuel pauses, but soon takes it and shakes it firmly. Rough palms, you notice. He must work with his hands fairly often. It goes quiet after that as both of you sip on your drinks in comfortable silence.

“You come here often? — That sounded like the worst pick-up line ever, jeez—“

Samuel rubs the back of his neck bashfully when you laugh. You do, as a matter of fact, come here often; after your classes finish you head here for the short sliver of afternoon you have free to read with your choice of beverage. The golden hour, some might call it. If you wanted to get all poetic about it, anyway, you quip, wiggling your fingers dramatically. Samuel laughs, mirroring your wiggle.

“Sounds like a pretty good gig to me. Whaaaat school do you go to?”

And so begins the regular small talk, but with Samuel, it doesn’t feel forced. He leads from topic to topic with ease, going from classes you’re taking to movies you like smoothly, like he talks to people for a living. You suppose in this small town, all people can do is talk to each other.

After half an hour of chatting between lulls of silence where one of you would get another drink, you notice a pattern in Samuel’s grilling. All the questions revolve around you, which wouldn’t normally faze you, but as you try to integrate questions about him you start to see him dodge them, weaving around and to another topic with ease. You asked about his family, but he physically flinches and brushes it off as a shiver, but by the way what’s with this crazy weather, eh?

You get the feeling he’s hiding something, but you’re not sure what. Besides, you can’t really have a full-on heart-to-heart with a complete stranger, no matter how close you are to each other from your opposing sides of the small cafe table. Yet… something tells you this “Samuel” is not what he seems.

Samuel’s talking about a scary movie he saw a while ago and you politely tune back in, wait until he finishes his bit about the summer camp killer, then make your first attack.

“So, Samuel, speaking of summer camps. Are you visiting here for some reason? You’ve got an accent— one different from here, anyway.”

Samuel sputters for a moment before starting to talk about how he’s trying to imitate some famous actor from there, Samuel’s definitely from here, after all—

“Are you sure?”

He stops, sighing and dragging his hand down his face. Samuel looks up at you as you stir your drink, nervously awaiting his response as he tries to figure out what it is.

“Look, I— I got a lotta stuff goin’ on. Stuff you wouldn’t get. I barely even know you—“

Seems like he knows your life story at this point, you retort, arching a brow. And yet you know nothing about him but his name.

“That’s not— Never mind. What I mean is that I’ve been through a lot of shit and I don’t know you so I’m not gonna say anything.”

You could try, you say quietly. Samuel looks up at you as you tell him he can trust you— if he feels comfortable enough to, anyway. You’re willing to listen if he’s willing to talk.

Samuel’s shoulders slump and he goes silent for a second. There’s that far-off look again; he stares out the window pensively. You follow his gaze to the coastline across the way, past the road and the sandy hill down to the shore. The waves bend and break under the receding sunlight.

“I see you everyday in here, y’know. Readin’ with your little teacup thing in the really good spot I always want.”

Samuel turns to meet your eye and there’s a softness there you don’t recognize.

“I feel like— I feel like I do know ya, somehow. Hell, I only just found out your name but I was tryin’a figure it out for months. It fits you.”

Your face flushes with warmth, but your drink went cold ages ago.

“I… I dunno. You’ve got one’a them faces, y’know? I feel like I could tell you everythin’ that’s been going on but… I don’t know if you’d want me to.”

You offer Samuel a warm smile and nod for him to continue. He doesn’t have to continue if he doesn’t want to, you tell him— but he shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s alright. Probably a good idea to talk about it after all this time.”

How long?  
“Oh, uh… ten… years, I think.”

Well then.

Samuel laughs anxiously. “Yeah, uh. You ready for a lifetime of weirdness?”

You’re game. Samuel grins, about to head into his story, but a small, wrinkly hand pats the table between your empty cups and you both look up in surprise.

“As much as my staff and I are glad you two finally started talking, I’m afraid we closed fifteen minutes ago.” The manager, a short, salt-and-pepper-haired lady, stands beside you, eyes warm but voice firm.

“Oh, uh— Sorry, ma’am. We’ll get outta your hair—“

“— Not before you take the rest of our donuts. On the house. They’d go to waste here.”

She brandishes a box of a dozen donuts and places it on the table, simultaneously scooping up your mugs with her other hand. Lady’s been at this gig for a while, apparently.

“Now scoot, I have to clean this table.”

— — — — —

You and Samuel find a bench near the coastline and sit with your free donuts, munching in companionable silence before he clears his throat.

“So, uh. First off… Samuel’s not actually my name.”

You almost choke on your donut.

“Jeez, don’t die on me yet—“ Not-Samuel laughs and pats your back until you recover. If Samuel’s not his name, then… what is it?

He looks around nervously, as if he’s afraid someone’s watching him. You repeat his motions more comically and he loosens up a little, pushing your shoulder with a small laugh.

“It’s Stanley. Stan for short.”

You try out the mouthfeel and say his name before taking another bite of donut. Stan smiles, a slight pink tint across his cheeks.

“Don’t wear it out, heh. Anyway, uh… You’re gonna get an abridged version of this, else we’ll be here all night.”

And so he begins his tale. As he said you don’t get a lot of the details, but in his “abridged version” you gather that he messed something up with his brother, they’ve not spoken since high school, and he’s been slumming it around America for the ten years since they hadn’t talked.

… Yikes.

Stan gets to the last part and looks off to the horizon, watching the ocean. Living in a town by the coast has its benefits, but the ocean holds some sad memory for Stan. He reaches into his red jacket’s pocket and unfurls the paper you saw in his hand before— a postcard from some place called “Gravity Falls”.

“So now he’s talkin’ to me. Almost ten years after I got kicked out and he wants me to drive all the way to this place in Oregon based off one friggin’ postcard. Can you believe that?”

It’s hard to say. To be fair to Stan’s brother, you don’t know him or what really happened between them, but you can’t help but feel for him. It’s a bad situation that Stan’s brother didn’t handle very well.

“And I don’t know… I don’t know whether to go see him or not. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen, right? But still…”

Stan stares down at the postcard and sighs again. Seems he does a lot of sighing nowadays— you can’t really blame him. After a moment to gather what you think is right, you start to reply, a hand gently placed on his back.

You tell him to go see his brother, even if it goes wrong. He doesn’t know what’ll happen, after all. And besides, family don’t give up on each other, right? You’re sure that after all this time his brother forgave him and let bygones be bygones.

Of course, you don’t know that for sure. But you know what Stan needs right now is hope, and you can at least give him that. You pat his back once, twice, then offer him a donut. To liven things up.

Stan stares at you for a long time once you finish but he relaxes at your offering of a peace donut. He bites into it and contemplates, staring straight ahead for a long moment as he chews.

“Y’know what? You’re right.” He swallows, brushes crumbs off his jacket. “I should go see Ford ’n see what’s up. His message on the postcard sounded urgent.”

He flips it over for you to read. Scribbled handwriting reads “PLEASE COME! -FORD” across the back of the scenic photo. His brother definitely sounds urgent, you agree, taking another donut.

“Heh, yeah… I guess he is. I gotta go see what’s up, I suppose.”

Stan reaches for another donut but his grabby fingers hit crumbs.

“… Did we just eat a dozen donuts between us?”

You definitely just ate a dozen donuts between you, you reply as you eat the last bit of your final donut. Stan laughs and shakes his head, closing the box and stuffing it into the nearby trash can.

“Well, uh… Thanks for talkin’ with me, stranger. Though I guess we’re not really strangers now, huh?”

Since you devoured a dozen donuts and talked life for several hours, you’re not really strangers, you joke, standing and grabbing your bag. Stan chuckles and gets up from the bench, fumbling to find something to conclude your small get-together.

You have to admit, you’re sad you have to part ways, but both of you seem ready to go. It’s also fairly late, you realize as you check your watch.

“I, um— I don’t have a phone number. Or a phone. Which kinda go hand in hand, but still— Well, I’ll be at my brother’s place if you need to contact me. His address is here…”

He hands you his brother’s postcard and you quickly scribble down the address on your bookmark, for lack of a better paper. You go to tell him yours, but he doesn’t have anything to write it on—

“Besides, I’ll know it’s you.”

It’s a fairly innocent statement but you both blush.

“— I mean, from the name. Of course. I’d write it on Ford’s thing, but he kinda… took up all the room.”

He waves Ford’s huge handwriting at you on the postcard.

“Send me one sometime, will ya? Just to say hi or whatever. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You say you will, then take a leap of faith and step forward, offering a hug. He hesitates and you start to lower your arms but he quickly takes you up on it, practically scooping you off the ground in his hug. He’s strong; you feel it under his jacket. He doesn’t really smell great but you don’t care that much.

The two of you pull apart and Stan says his goodbyes, heading backwards to his surprisingly shiny red car. You wave him off and he drives toward the horizon, waving his arm out his window.

— — — — —

It’s a few months until you hear from Stan again— you’ve long since finished the book you read at the cafe when he sidled up to your table. You sent him a postcard a week or two after he drove away, asking how he’s doing and what happened with his brother. He’s a bit late on the reply, but at least he held out.

Checking the mail that spring, you find a small postcard among your other letters and you scramble to read out what it says— because like Stan said, you know it’s him. His message is short and invites you for a visit and a free tour…? You flip the postcard over.

“What is The Mystery Shack?”

You’re about to find out.


End file.
